


Songs for the North

by IamInadequate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Arya Snow - Freeform, F/M, Incest, Multi, Prince!Gendry, Smut, a little but just a little little of robert baratheon/lyanna stark, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-02-27 17:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18743653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamInadequate/pseuds/IamInadequate
Summary: AUs, stand-alone stories about Arya and Gendry.1st: Gendry is the only son of Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark. The Rebellion still happens.2nd: Arya is the bastard daughter of Ned Stark, Gendry is the second son of Robert and Cersei.





	1. Cousin, cousin

**Author's Note:**

> English is still not my first language and all mistakes are proudly mine.  
> Hope you enjoy it!

“Cousin, cousin!”  
Arya snorts.

“Wait for me!”  
She slows down and eventually stops, listening to her cousin's crunching jog through the woods. He is clumsy in his Southern clothes, in his new boots, in his Baratheon physique.  
She looks at his red face, sweaty brow and wants to laugh. She has to bite her lip to contain her mirth, because she knows how full of pride his cousin is.  
Baratheon and Stark bloods in a stubborn boy. Not the kind of person you want to prick in its ego.  
But he knows her and he knows her face.  
It's only natural that he frowns deeply.  
“I'm really sorry, cousin. But you move like a kettle of oxen. How can you even hunt?”  
Her shoulders shudder like the leaves above their heads, blown by the Northern winds. His face is red, his stance stiff.

Arya is only eight, but she is smart. And she is ready when Gendry launches himself towards her.  
She laughs while running through the woods, feeling free as the indignant birds that fly away from their rumbling voices.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn't remember his mother at all.  
His father groans her name when his belly is full of wine, he sings songs about her beauty and her smile. When the nights are cold, he bells about his Northern bride.  
Gendry is curious, but he can't ask him about her.

But now, he is the ward of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, his noble and just uncle.  
Their days are spent around the city, alongside the peasants and the merchants, talking and listening to their problems. His uncle wants to teach him how to be a good ruler.  
And he understands.

*

He is shy around his Uncle, but no Baratheon is a coward so, as they are coming back from the stables, he speaks, trembling just a bit. “May I ask you about my mother, Uncle?”  
Eddard Stark looks at him with his deep grey eyes and Gendry wants to run in his chambers. But it's his uncle's hand on his shoulder that melts his intention.  
“Come with me.” and he follows.

 

They are in the crypts.  
It's humid and cold, too dark for his eyes, but not for Eddard Stark. He knows every rock and every hole, he passes with tranquility through statues of their ancestors.

Until a woman carved in white marble appears in front of them.  
“Lyanna loved you fiercely.” he says in a hushed tone. “I remember her smile when you would fuss in her arms.”  
Gendry knows her mother was captured when he was only three moons old. He knows the Targaryen Prince died for that sin.  
“She was the North.” and they stay in the crypts for a little longer.

 

* * *

 

 

Arya is twelve when she bleeds. It's uncomfortable and painful, but not as painful as her mother's face when she finds out. She kisses her cheeks and brushes her hair, telling her stories about love and knights and ladies.  
Arya doesn't care about love, she cares about swords and fights.  
But now she is a woman.  
She groans.  
“Is everything fine, m'lady?”

And she scoffs.  
His cousin, her father's ward as well as the Prince of the Seven Kingdom, looks at her with bright eyes.  
He is sixteen. He has a black beard, not as thick as his father or uncles, but he looks older than Robb now. He is broad and as stupid as a bull.

“Yes.” she hisses. “I'm trying to escape from my mother. She is weird.”  
Gendry smiles at her antics.  
“Just because I bled. It's stupid, I'm still Arya. She talks about marriage and family and duties. I'm not ready for any of these things.”Gendry nods, a little astounded.  
“I'm sure they are not going to force you in a marriage. She is just happy. It's an important thing, after all.”  
Arya's eyes gleam of a dangerous light. “You don't understand. Stupid bull!”  
She stomps her foot and runs away toward the stables. So Gendry follows her.  
She is quick, but Gendry knows her movements so well, he predicts her turn and catches her arm.

It's far from being over.

She is feisty like a cat as she tries to escape, but he is stronger. So they start their wrestled dance. And her expression changes. She is not angry anymore because now she wants to win, to prevail. It's always like that, with them; so they fight, Gendry tries not to be bitten or scratched, as Arya tries to escapes from his grip.  
And they end on the stable's ground, with straw in their hair and bubbling laughter on their mouth.  
Arya then straddles his cousin, just to win this childish fight. Her eyes are shining and her lips are stretched in the most genuine smile of the Seven Kingdoms.  
So the prince has to upset that smile.

He grasps her sides and rolls them both, with unexpected velocity.  
Arya huffs and looks at him from beneath his body, his strong arms caging her, his legs pressing on hers. It's not the first time it happens, now that he is older and stronger.  
His breath fans on her and for a fleeting moment she stares at his curved lips with more than just fury. She squirms, uncomfortable with her thoughts.  
He wins and it's not the only reason she is so bothered.

Two moons pass and Gendry goes back to King's Landing.

 

* * *

 

 

Arya is not happy to be in the South.  
She is curious about the Red Keep, the dragons' skulls and she really wants to see the sea. However, she doesn't want to stay in the court to find the perfect suitor for her marriage.  
She wants to water dance and to run free in the woods.

They arrive in a warm afternoon, with the court awaiting in the gardens. Arya feels so different from the Southern ladies. They are gracious and colorful like a flock of robins, while she is a crow. She feels oddly powerful.

She arrives trotting alongside her father, and it's her cousin's hand that helps her dismount her horse.  
He is a man now. His hair is as thick as she remembers while his beard is bushier. His blue eyes looks like the clearest of the sky. He is so handsome and Arya feels bothered by him again.  
“M'lady.” he kisses her hand, his face twinkling with interest.  
She rolls her eyes at that word and bows respectfully at her prince.

*

Her uncle likes to drink. She already knew that, but she couldn't imagine how much he would drink in a night. His lips and cheeks are red and his eyes are glossy. He is the shadow of the man he used to be, or at least the one she knows from the stories.

  
Gendry is listening to her father with his painful expression, the one he has when he thinks intensely.  
She almost snorts on her cup.  
But then the son of some lord asks her to dance and she has to accept.It's awkward and his hand is a little to close to her rear for her liking. She stomps on his foot twice or thrice and she excuses herself as soon as the song ends.  
She doesn't want to dance with strangers, she doesn't want to marry a man she doesn't know. She doesn't want to marry at all.  
She feels the weight of the situation on her shoulders as she wishes she could just vanish. But she can't.  
She is strong, her House can endure winters, so she can endure a feast.  
And she does. Not without stomped feet or snide remarks, though.

*

“You know my lady, you danced with every eligible man in the court except with me.” he chuckles.  
“Pardon me, my prince, are you an eligible man?”  
Gendry looks at her, a little smile still lingering on his lips. “I'm not betrothed, am I?”  
“How come?” she asks.  
They are on the top of the southern tower, eating apple and lemon tarts. It's a windy day, but the sun is shining and Arya likes the gusts of wind that play with her hair.  
“I want to know my future wife. I want to like her. I want to be liked by her.”  
She feels jealousy, she won't have the same privilege.  
“I envy you.”  
“You don't. I'll be the King of the Seven Kingdoms.”  
Arya nods. It's true. So she puts a hand on his arm and squeezes it. It's solid muscle, warm skin. She tries to retreat it, before she starts to feel something.  
However Gendry claims her palm, he intertwines their fingers together and just stares at the clouds.

*

It's not her first kiss.  
She remembers her first kiss with the son of the shepherd, in the meadow. It was sweet and a little clumsy, brief.  
This one is nothing like that. It's strong, roughening, it consumes and shakes Arya in so many different ways her head starts to spin. Or maybe she just needs some air.  
So they part.

In her tongue still lingers the flavour of the bitter ale he likes to drink.  
It's not that bitter anymore.

*

The dance begins and they don't use the respectful manners lords and ladies should.  
They dance with their mouths and fingers and soft moans.

Arya likes to feel his callous hands on her sensitive nipples, she likes his rough beard on her neck. She loves to feel his hard cock pressed on her mound and his itched breath when she moves her hips, the friction is eliciting, her name on his lips even more.

She doesn't lay with him as husband and wife do.  
She doesn't care about virtue, but he does.

 

* * *

 

 

Gendry Baratheon becomes king of the Seven Kingdoms when he is twenty-one.  
Eddard Stark is old, he misses his North, but he can't leave his nephew alone, in a court ready to tear the young Baratheon apart.  
He would rather leave him with a pack of wolves.  
And he sees how his new king looks at his young and wild daughter. He sees how his daughter looks at the stubborn king.  
Eddard knows they love each other, not in the way cousins usually do, and he knows they would be a just, regal couple.  
But he is afraid. A war is coming and he doesn't want his daughter in the Red Keep when the dragons will come.

So she sends her away.

 

* * *

 

 

It's the night before the Dragon Queen's arrival and Gendry is on his bed, alone.  
He misses Arya, he is afraid of the dragons and their piercing screams, but mostly he is afraid for the people of King's Landing.

He sighs.  
He closes his eyes.

“Stop thinking or your brow will wrinkle!”

He opens his eyes and Arya is there with a victorious smirk on her lips.  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, worried and angry, but secretly a little relieved.  
She sits on his bed and laughs.  
“I cannot leave you alone with this. You'll do something stupid like die.”  
She turns and looks at him with her grey eyes and Gendry's words fall from his lips. She jumps on him, swift as a shadow, and in no time they are breathless and needy.

They see each other completely naked for the first time and she can't stop touching his warm skin and hard muscles.  
His fingers trace old and new paths in her body.  
His kisses follow those paths.  
Her body squirms and her soft lips chant his name.

And when she asks him to be hers, he nods a little, tired to refrain his desire. Their desire.  
They are going to die soon anyway, at least he can be with his beloved northern lady.

So they moan words of love and silly promises until they cry of pleasure, tangled in the other.

 


	2. Snow in King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya is the bastard daughter of Ned Stark, Gendry is the second son of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister (No Cersei’s prophecy of course!). I aged them a bit because I don't really like to talk about 13yo children's marriage.  
> Hope you enjoy it! All my mistakes are mine of course!

“The nerve!”  
He can feel his mother's ire in her whisper.  
“How dare he!” she continues, her face getting redder and redder.  
She is whispering to herself, her hand gripping his arm like a vice.  
Queen Cersei is not a big woman, but she is strong.  
“Mother, you hurt me!” Gendry murmurs, looking at the crowd of people in front of them.  
Her mother relents a little, her faux smile on her lips again.  
She doesn't like the Starks, she had called them savages and pagans, uneducated. To Gendry, who has never been in the North, they look bitter, stiffened by their hard soil and harsh winds. They are grey and brown, steel and leather. Except for the lovely girl in front of them, with bright red hair and blue eyes. She is like a blossoming rose after the winter.  
She must be Sansa Stark.  
Gendry's eyes linger for a moment on his brother Joffrey, who is gloating like a turkey. His future bride is pretty and more importantly she is the daughter of their father's most trusted man. He hopes their father would notice him, at last. And maybe he will, for a while; but then he will only care for his belly full of wine and his cock wetted by some woman.  
And Sansa Stark would be alone with that monster.  
“What is the problem, dearest mother?” he whispers, as Ned Stark presents his family.  
“Her!” she spites, pointing to the northern crowd with her chin.  
“Lady Sansa Stark?”  
She sighs, that sigh she saves only for him, the one that says, “how stupid can you be, Gendry!”.  
“The bastard girl.”  
And with that, Cersei Lannister joins the greetings.  
Gendry follows her, confused by her mother's words. How does she know who the bastard girl is? And why is she so indignant?  
It's not the first time a Lord brings his bastard offspring into the Red Keep.  
“And this is my second son the Prince Gendry, Lord Stark.” her mother voice is so sweet Gendry wants to puke. Instead he greets the guests and kisses the hand of his future sister.  
Lord Stark looks at him with a benevolent smile. “You look like your father when he was your age.” And that's the main concern, my Lord. He smiles, a bit stiff. His mother disapproves his appearance, Joffrey hates him for it. And he doesn't want to resemble him.  
Then his gaze shifts a bit and he see her. The bastard. He can see the strong likeness with Lord Eddard Stark, the same severe expression, their matching grey eyes.  
She is prettier, though.

 

Gendry finds out more about the Snow girl. Her mother was a noble lady from the North who tended Lord Eddard Stark's wounds and loneliness, when the wildlings tried to conquer some lands near the Bay of Seals.  
He knows she likes to stay with his father's men when the evening meal comes. She smiles and jokes, she listens to them with bright eyes.  
She talks to her sister when the ladies of the court don't see them. He saw them one evening, Lady Snow's eyes weary of every movement, as Lady Stark talked in a whispering voice.  
He finds her intriguing.

 

He is in the forge, when he finally hears her voice for the first time.  
He is working on a gift for his little brother Tommen, when the door opens and the very Lady Snow enters. She is covered in dust and sand, her long hair was probably braided once, but is now a tangled mess. She is sweaty, so unladylike and Gendry is awestruck. All his life, girls looked the same, with rosy cheeks and a crown of hair on their heads.  
“Hello! Are you the blacksmith? I need some whetstone, please.”  
Her harsh accent contrasts with her sweet voice, he notes.  
He steps a little closer, closer to the torch's flame and the lady gasps horrified.  
“I'm sorry Your Highness, I didn't recognise you,” she bows and takes a step backwards.  
“You have nothing to be sorry about, Lady Snow,” he chuckles a little, looking at those stormy eyes.  
“I'm no lady,” she replies angrily.  
“Aren't you the daughter of a Lord and a Lady?”  
She bares her teeth before gnashing them, a bit frustrated by him. “If you would excuse me, Your Highness.”  
“Here,” he mutters, a whetstone in his stretched hand.  
Her eyes glints with a dangerous light, almost as if she is expecting some sort of attack from him, or as if she is going to attack him. However, she just accepts the whetstone and curtsies quickly before she is gone.  
He stays in the forge until the blacksmith casts him out.

The same night, their staring game begins.

 

Eight days from their first encounter. Eight nights of stares: sometimes shy, sometimes a little bold. Gendry doesn't know what kind of game they are playing or what he wants to tell her. He just really likes her high cheeks and grey eyes. And the way she looks back.  
Eight days and she shows up in the forge again.  
She is not covered in dust, but she is far from looking like a noble lady. She seems a little too suspicious, clearly not trusting his guts. Why should she, he asks himself. His brother is awful with her, his mother’s malevolent remarks about her status are always loud and heavy.  
“Does your Highness have nothing better to do than stay here in the forge?” she asks, picking a dagger that was resting on the table. She studies it and weights it in her palm.  
Gendry shrugs, “Not really.”  
He steps forward, conscious of his dirty apron and sweaty arms. She studies his collarbone for a second, her brow wrinkled by some thoughts she doesn’t seem to particularly like.  
“And my family would never come here,” he murmurs, looking at her. Her grey eyes are now on his, her stiff shoulders relax a little. Not a smile or even a smirk on her rosy lips, but Gendry counts it as a fair victory.  
She lays the dagger on the table and bows at the prince.  
“It’s a nice place to hide.”  
He returns to the red embers to tease them, sudden tongues of fire and sparks burst in the air and he can’t stop thinking about her; he is going in a dangerous place with his mind, he is toeing an edge he shouldn’t cross.  
Gendry throws his previous work away and begins a new project.

 

It’s an innocent gift.  
It has no meaning at all.  
He likes to create things, useful things for people who would appreciate them.  
Yet, he feels like he is doing something wrong. And he does, in a way. He is in front of Arya Snow’s chambers with a little gift wrapped in a silky cloth, far away from his chambers or his forge. He lays it in front of the door, not daring to knock it. It would be too much, to see her beautiful eyes in that moment.  
He scrambles away as soon as the gift is on the floor.

That night, Arya Snow is wearing his dagger on the belt that binds her slender waist.  
And he just knows that she knows who made that gift. Her intense face never leaves him alone, it torments him in a sweet torture, it makes him feel very conscious about his shaggy black hair and his rough unkept beard.  
She usually listens to her men’s crude words, laughs at their jokes, talks to them with equally strength.  
That night, Arya Snow is as silent as a shadow, straight on her bench and very watchful.  
Gendry is on edge, thrilling with the nervous energy he feels for Arya’s eyes; when the cup falls from his hand for the third time, Joffrey can’t stop chanting how stupid his little brother is. Their mother half smirks, but Gendry doesn’t feel that burning smirk as he usually would, he can’t feel nothing but her vigilant stare.  
And yet, in a blink of an eye, she is gone.  
He is disappointed for what, he isn’t sure. He can relax again, breath again without her steel grey eyes on him, even if he deeply feels the loss.  
He discreetly gets out from the dining hall as his King father cheers for the bosom of the young servant who was pouring wine to his cup. From the windows, the moonlight pours in the hallway as the brackish breeze dishevels his hair. It is so unusual to be alone in this big castle, he feels at peace for once.  
He is alone until he is crushed on the stony wall, the very sharp dagger he made for lady Snow on his throat. Her right arm is pressing on his chest, her face just a breath away from his.  
“What are you trying to do?” she firmly asks.  
She doesn’t seem angry, and an almost-playful smirk purses her lips. She is a dangerous lady, though. He is as still as a statue, even if his blood boils and his muscles tremble at her proximity. He is even weirdly aroused.  
“Nothing,” he declares with a hoarse voice he almost didn’t recognize as his.  
“Liar,” she spits. “Are you trying to woo me? Do you think it would be fun to make a fool of the bastard daughter of the Warden of the North?  
Or do you think it would be exciting to bed me? Bastards have a reputation, I know it. Creature made by the sins of their parents; we are greediness and lust ourselves.”  
Her rosy cheeks are now burning with a fury that would impress even a Baratheon. It matches his own.  
“I do not think any of it, my lady,” he swallows and feels the dagger scraping against his skin.  
“Liar,” she repeats; her body is now pressed on his and even if she is slender and quite shorter than him, he can’t move. He feels awfully hot, even against the cold wall on his back.  
“Stop calling me that. I do not wish to be called names from someone who doesn’t even know me.”  
She stares at him.  
“I thought you would like it, it’s just a gesture of friendship,” his bright eyes shine of mirth, even if he could possibly die in a matter of seconds. “You talk about my lustful intentions, my sweet lady, and yet you are the one who’s pressed against me, with your red cheeks and beautiful bright eyes.”  
She shifts immediately, all her grace and lightness are gone as she almost falls. The skin of her chest is as flushed as her cheeks.  
She truly is adorable.  
“I do not!” her voice is outraged, but the dagger is gone on its sheath.  
“I’m really sorry I misunderstood your actions then, my lady,” Gendry steps on and when she doesn’t move, he takes her left hand and lightly kisses it.  
He may know nothing about girls, but even he understands her intense stare.  
So, he kisses her fingers again.  
Then, the back of her hand.  
She doesn’t protest, her solemn stare on his blue eyes.  
“I wish you a good night, my lady,” and after another hot kiss on her hand, he leaves her bothered on the hallway.

Arya Snow is an interesting person.  
With her tight lips and severe eyes, she despise Gendry; but when he is on the training field, sweaty and shirtless, she just can’t look away.  
Gendry thinks her glances are hotter than the southern sun.  
And at night, he dreams of her glances and her lips and her flushed cheeks. The memory of her reddened chest makes him feel frustrated and too warm for his own bed; her tensed shoulders call for his hands, he yearns for a touch he knows he can’t desire.  
*

In King’s Landing, summer can be difficult. Sometimes it’s gentle, warm and embracing like a parent. Sometimes it’s hot, wet and it takes your breath away with its torrid fingers. Gendry doesn’t know the winter, but he wishes for it when the days are hot and the nights even hotter. And when those days come, he can only escape from the Red Keep, wearing his best tattered clothes to mingle with the people of the town, just to reach the shore.  
He is walking on the wet sand, as the waves caress his feet, and the breeze from the sea ruffles his black hair. Children dig in the sand looking for crabs and clams, laughing and smiling even if their bodies are not as plump as they should be and their clothes are soiled and worn.  
Gendry slips some coins in their little hands.  
He can’t help but cup his hands and fill them with the salty water, to pour it on his head. His wet fingers comb his hair as the cool water glides on his neck, through his shoulder blades, and it’s incredibly refreshing, almost pleasuring.  
The innocent laughter of the children attract his attention; their little hands clap as they sing a song about mermaids and pirates, they jump around a young woman who is holding hands with a redheaded girl.  
Except, the young woman is not just a young woman. It’s a young lady. The bastard lady from the North.  
And Gendry can’t stop looking at her bright smile and gentle eyes as she twirls with the young girl. She looks so content, so comfortable, her severe stare is gone and her tensed shoulders are just a memory from anther life.  
He thinks he doesn’t deserve to see Arya Snow. He doesn’t want to ruin her freedom, so he tries to go away slowly, unnoticed.  
But he can’t. Her stormy eyes flash at him and with a quick nod she points at some scattered trunk resting on the sand.  
So he patiently waits. She sings one more song as she clutches the hands of a little dark boy, she whispers and then rises her voice and her hands, making the little boy laugh.  
And the children fly away in a laughing hurry.  
Lady Snow walks slowly towards him, her nude ankles caressed by the shallow water, her feet sinking in the wet sand. She can be a peasant, she appears like one, but to him, she looks like a sea queen.  
“Your Grace.” She whispers as she sits near him. Her trousers are rolled up to the knees showing little scares of distant mischiefs. He would love to ask about the half moon that garnishes her left ankle.  
“My Lady,” he greets “your voice is as lovely as you are.”  
Arya rolls her eyes and shrugs. “What are you doing here?”  
“I love seafood, the best one is Morra’s.” and he points at the big sunburnt woman with the cart near the street. Lady Snow licks her lips; seafood is seldom in Winterfell and she loves its marine flavour and its peculiar texture.  
He is on his feet, flustered by her pink tongue, ready to buy the whole damn cart if she would like to.  
“Wait,” she says, holding the Prince’s shirt. “I’m not hungry.”  
Even if her eyes are wolfishly hungry.  
Apparently, not for seafood.  
He nods and Arya smiles at his pained expression. She briefly touches his arm as he returns on his seat and Gendry feels so thirsty, he could drink all the water of the sea.  
He feels like a fool. He probably is.  
Her hair is a mess as always and he can’t help but touch a wild lock that caresses her cheek.  
“May I?” he asks, moving his hand closer.  
She just looks at him and, as he touches her skin, she leans on that touch, pressing her warm cheek to his callused fingers.  
They are not as callused as the shepherd’s son, but they are strong and hot; she feels so overwhelmed by his skin, she must close her eyes.  
And she sighs as his lips touches her jawbone and then the skin under the ear. She feels his scent in her nostrils and shudders.  
It’s a natural consequence, when their lips lock in a longed kiss.  
*

Morra’s seafood is a fresh balm for their reddened lips and they eat it as they walk back home.  
Sometimes their fingers touch, sometimes they have to stop to kiss away the smug smirks they can’t control, but eventually the Red Keeps approaches and they have to sneak back in.

Gendry is painfully aware of Arya’s hungry eyes, whenever they are in the same room; she is painfully aware of his hungry eyes.  
It’s not only lust, what they feel. They talk, always in the forge or in a secluded lair, they whisper stories of their past: from the cold forest near Winterfell inhabited by magical grotesque creatures, to the thunderous sea of Storm’s End.  
She tells him her scars, he whispers back his own.  
They share emotions, touches and kisses. They explore their bodies; Arya likes to feel his body tense whenever her fingers find any particular spot; Gendry loves to hear her little squeaks of pleasure when he pinches her nipples or bite her earlobe.

*  
It’s a moonless night, when Arya knock at his door. She is sweaty and dishevelled, her nightgown crumpled and her hair impossibly ruffled.  
“My lady.” She storms inside his room as he opens the door, too agitated to get angry about his cheekiness. She is too worried to be bothered by his naked torso and scruffy beard.  
“I think my father and my sister are in danger,” she says, looking at the black sky from the windows.  
Gendry is confused, “my father trusts your father more than his own family.”  
Arya looks at him, knowing how painful this is for him.  
“I know. And he is blind if he can’t see how loyal you are. However, I don’t trust this court… I don’t trust your…” her words fade, but he knows.  
She doesn’t trust Joffrey and she despise his mother. She doesn’t want Sansa to stay here, but “family, duty, honour” are words stitched on their hearts.  
Gendry hugs her and kisses her head.  
For the first time, she cries in front of him.

*

Arya is dancing with Syrio, when Gendry opens the door. He is not the young man she knows, he is different. His eyes are red and a dark glint shines on them. She is scared, not of him, but of what his presence is bringing.  
“My father is dead.” Arya’s sword falls from her hand. She jumps on his arms as the bells begin to ring in a solemn rhythm. He tightens their embrace and Syrio slips away, leaving the couple alone.  
She kisses his wet cheeks and caresses his sweaty hair.  
“He was too drunk to hunt. A fucking boar killed a stag.”

*

Two days of stillness.  
People are weeping for their king and the court is a black sea of fabrics. Two days of stillness until the Hand of the King is imprisoned for treason.  
Arya is with Syrio again, sweaty and tired, but not happy as she would be. She feels sorrow for Gendry and his father and the kingdom.  
The doors open suddenly, a dishevelled Gendry interrupts again, and he takes her hand immediately.  
“The Golden Cloaks arrested your father for treason. We must go. Now.”  
Her ears ring, she can’t move or speak, she feels heavy as a stone, but the prince drags her away like she is a little branch.  
“He is innocent, of course.” He says as they cross a couple of hallways.  
“Sansa…” she mouths, as her limbs begins to regain strength.  
“She is with my mother.”  
“Jory and the other men!” she tries to slip out from his grip, but he is too strong, too stubborn.  
“They are all dead.”  
She is too devastated to cry. “Your Father asks me to protect you, if anything would happen to him. I tried to stop them, you have to believe me, Arya!”  
And she does. She nods, her laboured breath fanning over his worried face.  
So they fly away, steps after steps, through hallways Arya can’t recognise; she wants to save her father, wants so save Sansa, but she just runs away from her family.  
“I want to save them,” she pleas desperately.  
Gendry stops behind a shadowy corner, his eyes on hers as they try to regain their breath.  
“Joffrey will kill you.”  
“My father would never…”  
“Please, Arya. A war is exploding right now. I don’t know if your father and sister will live, but you won’t, if they catch you. I can’t let that happen.”  
Another terrible thought appears on her swirling mind.  
“If they see us together, they’ll kill you too. We should split.”  
“I’m a dead man already. My brother despises me and my mother knows I’m a threat to my sibling’s legitimacy.”  
Arya is too confused to understand, but he kisses her forehead, then her nose and eventually her lips.  
She closes her eyes and then nods a little.  
“We have to go North, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget about this fanfic, but I couldn't write until these days. I'm really sorry about this. Hope you liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any question, feel free to ask!  
> Love you all.


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